"No, no, I'm not raving...
Besides, we shall soon see ..."
He got out of bed, put on a dressing-gown and slippers, took a light from the hands of a servant and, opening the window, stepped out on the balcony.
The count saw that the window had been pierced by a bullet at a man's height.
Raoul was leaning over the balcony with his candle:
"Aha!" he said.
"Blood! ...
Blood! ... Here, there, more blood! ...
That's a good thing!
A ghost who bleeds is less dangerous!" he grinned.
"Raoul!
Raoul! Raoul!"
The count was shaking him as though he were trying to waken a sleep-walker.
"But, my dear brother, I'm not asleep!" Raoul protested impatiently.
"You can see the blood for yourself.
I thought I had been dreaming and firing at two stars.
It was Erik's eyes ... and here is his blood! ...
After all, perhaps I was wrong to shoot; and Christine is quite capable of never forgiving me ...
All this would not have happened if I had drawn the curtains before going to bed."
"Raoul, have you suddenly gone mad?
Wake up!"
"What, still?
You would do better to help me find Erik ... for, after all, a ghost who bleeds can always be found."
The count's valet said: "That is so, sir; there is blood on the balcony."
The other man-servant brought a lamp, by the light of which they examined the balcony carefully.
The marks of blood followed the rail till they reached a gutter-spout; then they went up the gutter-spout.
"My dear fellow," said Count Philippe, "you have fired at a cat."
"The misfortune is," said Raoul, with a grin, "that it's quite possible.
With Erik, you never know.
Is it Erik?
Is it the cat?
Is it the ghost?
No, with Erik, you can't tell!"
Raoul went on making this strange sort of remarks which corresponded so intimately and logically with the preoccupation of his brain and which, at the same time, tended to persuade many people that his mind was unhinged.
The count himself was seized with this idea; and, later, the examining magistrate, on receiving the report of the commissary of police, came to the same conclusion.
"Who is Erik?" asked the count, pressing his brother's hand.
"He is my rival.
And, if he's not dead, it's a pity."
He dismissed the servants with a wave of the hand and the two Chagnys were left alone.
But the men were not out of earshot before the count's valet heard Raoul say, distinctly and emphatically:
"I shall carry off Christine Daae to-night."
This phrase was afterward repeated to M. Faure, the examining-magistrate. But no one ever knew exactly what passed between the two brothers at this interview.
The servants declared that this was not their first quarrel.
Their voices penetrated the wall; and it was always an actress called Christine Daae that was in question.
At breakfast—the early morning breakfast, which the count took in his study—Philippe sent for his brother.
Raoul arrived silent and gloomy.
The scene was a very short one.
Philippe handed his brother a copy of the Epoque and said: "Read that!"
The viscount read:
"The latest news in the Faubourg is that there is a promise of marriage between Mlle. Christine Daae, the opera-singer, and M. le Vicomte Raoul de Chagny.